Chapter 1: The Truth in the Shadows

After finding out I was adopted, I made up my mind to step aside and let my parents have their real son back—the one who always looked at me like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe.

It was the kind of look that sticks with you, you know? No matter how many times I tried to laugh it off, it was always there—mud I couldn’t shake off. Even when I tried to act cool at school or pretend it didn’t sting at dinner, that look just clung to me.

The night I was getting ready to leave, my phone suddenly blew up with a flood of messages popping up in front of me:

"Don’t go! You’re the rightful heir to this family’s fortune!"

"For real! If you leave, who’s gonna get justice for your real parents?"

"Your adoptive parents killed your real parents, stole their house, and took all your family’s money. Scared of getting caught, they adopted you and used you to protect their own son!"

"If you walk away now, you’ll totally regret it!"

The words blinked at me, almost like someone was banging on the glass from the other side. It was jarring, surreal—I rubbed my eyes, but the words didn’t go away. Like seeing a warning sign flash in a dream you can’t wake up from.

While cleaning up Dad’s study, I accidentally knocked over a stack of paperwork. An adoption certificate slid out and landed right in front of me.

It fluttered to the floor, landing face-up on the hardwood, the official seal catching the light from the lamp. For a second, I just stared, thinking, No way. I must be seeing things. But there it was—cold and real as the night air sneaking in from the window.

My name, "Dylan Mercer," was written right there, along with a birth date that matched the one on my birth certificate exactly.

Seeing my name in that weird handwriting, with the date all official and cold, made my stomach drop. It was like the world had tilted sideways, and I was the only one who noticed. I couldn’t breathe.

It felt like I’d been struck by lightning. I just stood there, frozen, my heart getting punched over and over, the pain almost knocking the wind out of me.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe for a second. My mind spun, replaying every offhand comment, every cold look, every moment I’d tried to brush off. Everything just crashed together in my chest, sharp and unforgiving.

I used to think my parents favored my brother just because I was the older one.

I mean, that’s what everyone says, right? The oldest kid’s supposed to be more responsible. Let the little guy have his way, be the bigger person. I bought into that for years, using it to explain every unfair moment.

I was the oldest.

Letting the younger one have things just seemed natural.

Even when my little brother took my favorite action figures and comics, even when he yelled at me, my parents would always say, “Your brother’s still young—can’t you just let him have it?”

Sometimes it felt like we were all reading from a script. My brother would snatch something, I’d protest, and Mom or Dad would swoop in with that same line. After a while, it just faded into background noise.

At Christmas, when the family took group photos, my brother would purposely shove me to the edge. When the photos came back, I’d be half-cropped out, but my parents never seemed to notice.

I remember standing on tiptoe, trying to squeeze back in the frame, only to end up with my shoulder or half my head missing in the final print. The mantle was always lined with those photos, my absence right there in plain sight. It hurt. But what could I do?

Over the years, I just accepted that this was "how families are."

I figured every family had their own weird rules and unfair stuff. I told myself not to make a big deal—just keep my head down and go with the flow.

I thought my brother’s attitude and bad behavior were just because he was a kid and didn’t know any better.

Kids act out, right? He’d throw a fit or toss my stuff around, and I’d let it slide. Maybe he’d grow out of it, I told myself. Maybe one day he’d wake up and see me as his brother, not his rival.

But in the end, it all came down to the fact that I wasn’t their real kid.

That realization hit me like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, everything made a twisted kind of sense, and I hated how much it hurt to admit it.

My brother hated me for taking his place.

I could see it now, in every glare and every whispered insult. I was the obstacle, the mistake, the thing that didn’t belong. I couldn’t breathe.

Tears streamed down my face before I even realized it.

I wiped them away with the back of my hand, but they just kept coming, hot and relentless. My chest ached, and I bit my lip to keep from sobbing out loud.

I stood there for a long time, reading the adoption certificate over and over, hoping this was just some twisted dream, hoping it was fake.

I ran my thumb over the embossed seal, half-expecting the letters to blur or the paper to dissolve. But it was all real—stubbornly, painfully real.

But the cold, relentless truth washed over me again and again. Nothing changed—except for the tears.

No matter how hard I tried to deny it, the facts stared back at me. My hands shook as I clutched the paper, feeling more lost than ever.

I took a deep breath and carefully put the adoption certificate back where I found it.

I smoothed out the creases, making sure it looked untouched. For a second, I almost wanted to rip it up, but what would be the point? The truth wouldn’t disappear just because I pretended it didn’t exist.

Forget it. If this is how things are, why keep forcing it?

I let out a shaky laugh, the kind that sounds nothing like relief. Why keep chasing something that was never mine to begin with?

I decided to give my parents back to my brother.

Let him have the spotlight, the hugs, the easy smiles. I was tired of fighting for scraps.

After all, he was their real son.

Blood runs thicker than water, or so they say. Maybe now things would finally make sense for everyone.

And me? An adopted outsider—how could I ever expect even a scrap of their love?

I stared at my reflection in the window, wondering if I’d ever really belonged anywhere at all. The answer felt obvious now. Nowhere.

Back in my room, I quietly started packing my things.

I moved slowly, folding shirts and jeans into my old duffel bag, careful not to make a sound. Every item I packed felt heavier than the last—like I was boxing up memories I’d never really owned.

The sorrow in my chest felt like a pair of cruel hands, squeezing my heart so tight I could barely breathe.

I sat on the edge of my bed, clutching my pillow, wishing I could just melt into the mattress and disappear. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.

I took several deep breaths to try to keep it together.

Counting each inhale and exhale, I tried to calm the storm inside me. My hands trembled, but I forced myself to keep moving, one shaky breath at a time.

"Surprise!"

Just as I was halfway through packing, Dad suddenly burst in, holding a birthday cake.

The sweet smell of frosting filled the room, and for a split second, I forgot everything. Dad’s face was lit up with excitement, his grin wide and genuine.

I was so startled I nearly dropped my suitcase.

The handle slipped from my fingers, thunking softly against the carpet. I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden burst of normalcy in the middle of my private storm.

Dad noticed me packing and looked just as surprised.

He glanced from the suitcase to me, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. "You going somewhere, bud?"

"Son, what are you doing?"

He gently set the cake on the desk, his eyes full of confusion.

His voice was softer than usual, and I could see the worry etched into the lines around his mouth. He waited for me to answer, but I couldn’t meet his gaze.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell him I was about to leave.

My throat tightened, and I looked away, pretending to fuss with my backpack. The words stuck in my chest, too heavy to say.

Ever since I found the adoption certificate, I’d decided that Mom and my brother’s affection for me was fake.

Only Dad, in recent years, had really cared for me and looked after me. I didn’t want him to know my decision—I just wanted to slip away quietly.

I remembered the late-night talks we’d had, the times he’d slipped me an extra ten bucks for pizza or driven me to soccer practice when everyone else forgot. Those memories stung now, bittersweet and sharp.

So I lied: "School’s got a summer camp. I’m leaving tomorrow."

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I tried to sound casual, but my voice wavered just a little.

Dad’s frown disappeared instantly. He smiled, picked up the cake again, and used the lighter I’d given him last Father’s Day to carefully light the candles. Then he stepped back, stood in front of me, and said, "Mom and your brother went out. So it’s just you and me, birthday boy. Make a wish—maybe it’ll come true!"

He said it with a kind of ceremony, like he was trying to make up for all the birthdays we’d missed together. The candles flickered, casting a warm glow across his face.

Dad looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, urging me to close my eyes and make a wish.

He winked, nudging me gently. "Go on, Dylan. Blow ‘em out, make it count."

I slowly closed my eyes and silently wished:

I really hope this is just a nightmare. I wish I were your biological son.

I squeezed my eyes shut, clinging to that impossible hope. For a second, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

"Here it comes—your wish came true! Ta-da!"

When I opened my eyes, Dad pushed a big gift box in front of me.

The wrapping paper was bright blue, covered in little stars. He looked so proud, like he’d just pulled off the greatest magic trick in the world.

"Son, I bet your wish was for the PS5 you’ve been wanting, right?"

I forced a stiff smile and managed to say, "Thank you, Dad."

My voice cracked a little, but I hoped he didn’t notice. I ran my hand over the box, pretending to be excited.

I’d always dreamed of having that console and had mentioned it to Mom more than once.

I’d circled it in catalogs, left hints on the fridge, even joked about it at dinner. It felt like a pipe dream—something other kids got, but not me.

But Mom was worried it would distract my brother from his studies and always said no.

She’d shoot me a look, shake her head, and say, “We can’t have Mason slacking off.” Like my wishes didn’t count if they didn’t fit her plan for him.

Dad had tried to convince her, but she wouldn’t budge.

I remember overhearing their arguments late at night, Dad’s voice low and patient, Mom’s sharp and insistent. I’d always hoped he’d win, just once.

I didn’t expect that after all these months, Dad still remembered my wish.

It’s just a shame, Dad. That’s not my real wish.

I stared at the box, blinking back tears. If only you knew what I really wanted.

And I doubt my real wish will ever come true.

Even if I had a hundred more birthdays, it wouldn’t matter.

Dad took me out for pizza and mini-golf, and played with me until my heart was content. The whole time, he wore a smile full of love for me.

He let me pick the toppings, cheered me on at every hole, and even let me win a round. For a while, I almost believed everything was okay.

How I wished time could freeze right here, so I could stay in this happy moment forever.

I wanted to bottle up that feeling, tuck it away for all the hard days. Just Dad and me, laughing under the neon lights, forgetting the world for a little while.

But good times never last.

They slip through your fingers no matter how tightly you hold on. The drive home felt shorter than ever, the silence growing heavier with each mile.

After a day of fun, Dad brought me home.

He ruffled my hair, told me to keep my chin up, and squeezed my shoulder before unlocking the front door. The porch light flickered, casting long shadows across the lawn.

He told me to study hard, gave me a big hug, and hurried off to work.

His cologne lingered on my shirt, a faint reminder that he’d been there. I watched him drive away, headlights fading into the night.

He was always so busy—we’d only see each other a handful of times each month.

Sometimes I wondered if he worked so much just to stay away from home. Maybe it was easier that way, for both of us.

I stood there, took a deep breath, and walked into the house with a heavy heart.

The quiet inside felt colder than usual, every creak of the floorboards echoing in my ears. I swallowed hard, steeling myself for what came next.

Taking advantage of Mom and my brother still being out, I got ready to leave quietly.

I moved quickly, grabbing my bag and double-checking that I had everything. I tiptoed past the family photos on the wall, each one a reminder of what I was leaving behind.

I wrote a note and left it on Dad’s desk: "Being your son has been the best part of my life."

I hesitated for a moment, pen hovering over the paper. There was so much more I wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. I folded the note neatly, tucking it under his favorite coffee mug. I was out of words.